Substitute Professors
by All Galimatias
Summary: Magical professors are as prone to malady and mishap as Muggle teachers and when a member of staff is unable to teach at Hogwarts, it is always, unfathomably, the same two wizard-shaped beings who are enlisted to take fill the gap. For over one thousand years Aziraphale and Crowley have been supply teachers for Hogwarts, and they have seen its best, its worse and all those between.
1. Chapter 1

Pushing all her weight onto the heavy wooden door buried in the castle wall, Minerva McGonagall crept quietly into the school with all the stealth of a particularly talented cat. Her broomstick was in one hand and her softly glowing wand was held in the other, cautiously pointed ahead of her, lighting her way. She was desperate not to attract any attention. It was late, almost midnight, and she didn't want to think about what she'd do if she got caught out of bed at this hour. This near forgotten passageway of the castle was icy cold, and Minerva shivered as she leant back on the door to send it slowly swinging back into its frame.

Holding her Comet 140 to her chest protectively Minerva started up the steps, dust blooming up from the steps as she went. Pushing open a second, lighter door, the eleven year old witch emerged onto a considerably warmer corridor-more-travelled. As the door dissolved into masonry behind her, she stole quietly in the direction of the Gryffindor dormitories, not letting herself relax. She had, so far, an entirely clean record at Hogwarts and she didn't want to spoil it by being caught sneaking about after hours for something so silly. Berating herself for the three thousandth time since she'd realised it was two hours after lights out, she sped up as much as she could without making any noise. She could get expelled, or lose points, which would be even worse because then everyone in her house would hate her, or…

Opening another door, Minerva looked around to find the right flight of stairs as she put out her wand. The Grand Staircase quietly shifted all about her, most of the portraits sleeping. One that was not, a drowsy looking witch, smiled slightly and gave her a wink before closing her eyes. Stepping forward, Minerva started to climb the staircase leading her up to the fourth floor when she froze. On the flight above was not one but three teachers, two of them engaged in a friendly sounding, if largely undertone, conversation. Her heart sank straight through her boots and then down two more floors.

"No, no, that sounds perfectly lovely," one of them was saying cheerfully. The man in question was wearing blue robes that she could see were tartan, even from the floor below, and a rather dramatic matching hat.

"Well, I'm glad you think so," the one he was addressing replied, voice booming in a satisfied sort of way, an impressing feat when the conversation was taking place in a tone just above a whisper. This voice Minerva could identify as her Potions teacher, Professor Slughorn. "I remember you from my own school days, you know, and I wouldn't want to be a stranger!"

"Really now?"

"Oh yes, and you don't seem to have aged at all."

The hitherto silent wizard let out a sound suspiciously like a snigger; the first aughed politely, if slightly too loud, to cover it.

"If only," he replied jovially, smiling pleasantly. "We'll see you tomorrow, then?" His quiet companion, robes pitch black, made a choking noise that the two others ignored.

"Certainly, my dear fellow."

After bidding his companions a well-mannered good night, Minerva watched as Slughorn disappeared down a flight of steps she was thankfully not on, in the direction of the dungeons. Now she just had to wait for the other two to leave, and she could be upstairs and in bed with nobody the wiser.

"He's just after that mead you brought from London, you know," the darkly-garbed wizard commented as soon as the echoing thud of a door closing below them sounded.

"Oh shush, Crowley. It's still a nice thing to do," the other replied mildly.

"It most certainly is not," Crowley replied, imitating Slughorn's pompous tones. "He's insufferable."

"Don't you usually like that in a person?"

"Only when it's _me_, angel. Or incited by me," Crowley said, sounding exasperated. "It actually is insufferable in everybody else."

The second man made a non-committal humming noise as he started up the stairs. "You do remember, I hope, that you practically invited yourself?"

"I didn't expect him to say_ yes_ though, did I? I thought it would put him off inviting you if I came." Crowley retorted as he followed.

"Why didn't you want him inviting me?"

There was a few beats pause. "Aziraphale, you remember how the point of us both coming to Hogwarts is that we don't have to worry about the other doing their job to well? How you thought I'd be too far away for my wiles to be sufficiently thwarted?"

"Mm. Though I do remember it being more your concerns, my dear. Didn't you think I'd have too much positive influence here if you left me 'unchecked'?" Aziraphale remarked mildly.

Crowley made an exasperated noise. "It's a moot point, angel. Anyway, you don't see a problem with me letting you go somewhere on your own with that in mind? You might undo all that greed, pride and bone-idle sloth I planted in him when he was still a student."

The tartan-dressed teacher was pushing open the door that would take them off the Grand Staircase, which was a combination of good and rather unfortunate. Unfortunate, because Minerva didn't understand half of what they were talking about and she wasn't used the sensation of not knowing something. Minerva McGonagall was a very intelligent child, and what she did not know from her own not inconsiderable wealth of knowledge for an eleven year old, she could usually decipher a conversation simply on her wits. The fact that she only understood half of the two teacher's discussion was enough to pique her curiosity, a sometimes regrettable trait in clever children, and she was anxious to know more. However, she prioritised, and focussed on the good as she tried to carry on up the stairs.

Tried, because unbeknownst to her until that moment her feet had been steadily sinking into the trick step she was standing on. Unable to stop her top half moving forward, Minerva over balanced and fell into the steps in front of her with a surprised yelp. To her horror, there was a loud crack as she landed on her broomstick.

"Oh G- Damn," said a voice above her. The next second there was somebody next to her, making worried noises.

"Are you quite all right, my dear? Nothing broken?"

"My _broom_," Minerva whispered, clinging to the two halves of her Comet as she was gently pulled to her feet. She'd been fairly sure she'd registered her wrist twisting as it caught her fall as well, but that wasn't nearly so important. Besides, she couldn't feel anything now.

"That is a very dead broomstick," Crowley observed, gaze flicking between the two bits of wood and Minerva's crushed expression. At his words, she felt her face fall further.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, sounding mournful. He paused, a realisation dawning over his face.

"Wait, aren't you supposed to be in your dorm? What are you doing out of bed?"

Minerva felt herself go very white, and felt simultaneously hot and cold.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean too, I was flying, and my broom, and I-," she said desperately, garbling all the words together in a mix of excuses and apologies.

"You're going to make her cry, Aziraphale," Crowley said, sounding quite gleeful.

"Crowley," the wizard reprimanded, sharply, tone softening as he addressed Minerva again.

"Now, now, my dear, take a deep breath and start again," he said soothingly. Quite unbidden, Minerva felt herself steadily dragging in a gulp of air, holding it for a moment, and then exhaling slowly. She felt much better for it, but tears began to well in her eyes anyway as she looked down at her broken broomstick.

There were a few beats pause, and then Crowley offered Aziraphale a handkerchief, who smiled at him before passing it to Minerva.

"Thank you?" she said, looking uncertainly between the two teachers before burying her face in the cloth. It smelt like campfire smoke and apples; it wasn't an unpleasant combination.

"You're welcome," Crowley said, voice evenly dismissive.

"Am… Am I in a lot of trouble?" Minerva asked quietly, lifting her gaze out of the hanky.

The two professors looked at each other.

"No," both said at the same time. Then, "Yes."

Minerva waited as they both gave each other annoyed looks.

"Really, angel, endorsing rule breaking?" Crowley said, folding his arms.

"Not jumping at the chance to plant bitterness in someone's heart?" the other replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Um…" Minerva said uncertainly. They both visibly started, apparently having forgotten her presence in the few seconds they hadn't been looking at her.

"Sorry. You're… You're not in trouble." The blonde teacher's clever blue eyes met hers, and Minerva had the strange sensation of being visually taken apart and put together again in the barest of seconds*.

"Though… I think it might be appropriate to confiscate your broom for the next week. You are out of bed after hours, dear, and this broom seems to be the root of the problem."

Minerva clutched the two pieces of wood in her hands tightly, eyes widening in horror.

"Sir, please, I'm not going to be able to fly it anyway, it's broken and the charms will be broken as well, it can't be fixed, please-"

"Minnie," Aziraphale said gently. The only other person who had ever called her that was her father. "One week. You know you've broken the rules, and I know you didn't mean too, but I am your teacher and it is my responsibility to make sure you know there are consequences when you do wrong. Okay?"

Behind him, Crowley pulled a face at Minerva, who was appropriately surprised. The teacher grinned at her, and Minerva felt the urge to look directly into his eyes at the same time as a shuddering compulsion to look anywhere but. She met Aziraphale's eyes again.

"Okay," she said softly, offering the two bits of broom.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said sincerely. "Now, why don't you go to bed. You have Transfiguration first thing, don't you? You're doing wonderfully so far, it wouldn't do too fall behind over lack of sleep."

Minerva nodded and started up the stairs, hands feeling empty without her broom. She knew it was out of the question to fix it; asides from the fact the charms alone would be impossible for an untrained eleven year old, there were special spells to stop the broom being fixed by anyone but a qualified wizard, to stop them from just being passed down eternally and putting the broom makers out of business . But she was not going to be able to get another till at least her birthday. It would have been nice to be able to try, or too at least have the pieces.

Reminding herself it was only a week, Minerva stopped at the floor of the Gryffindor common room, and resisted the urge to look back down to check if the two professors were still there. She took another deep breath, exhaled, and to her faint surprise felt a sense of total calm wash over her. Smiling slightly, with no real idea why, she padded across the corridor, whispered the password to the sleepy portrait of the Fat Lady, and went to bed, to have a lovely dream of the things she liked best.

A few floors down, Aziraphale and Crowley were in fact still on the stairs. Aziraphale was leaning on one of the golden banisters, watching the stair cases move below as he listened dutifully to Crowley 'berate' him.

"You stole her broom," Crowley said, in a tone that would have been suitably reprimanding, if it wasn't for the fact that he had no business reprimanding anybody.

"She gave me her broom," Aziraphale responded, looking put out. "It was the right thing to do, anyway."

"Well, really you should have upheld school rules," Crowley said with a sly grin, poking Aziraphale in the side. "You should have taken the broom off her, informed her that first years aren't allowed them anyway, sent it back to her parents, and then given her a detention for being out two hours later than she should be."

Aziraphale blinked at him.

"What?"

"You know the school rules!" Aziraphale beamed.

"Oh, for something's sake, angel, that's not the-"

"After all these years!" the other wittered obliviously.

"Aziraphale, shut up, the point stands."

"She's going to be an excellent Quidditch player, it'll make her very happy, and she'll share that with the people around her. It was the right thing to do," Aziraphale said, with perfectly balanced inner-conviction and righteousness.

"Well, it's what I would have done."

"Really?" Aziraphale looked alarmed, conviction gone.

"No, angel," Crowley replied, rolling his eyes. The charm on them was making them itch, so he waved a hand in front of his face and his irises changed from a golden brown to piercing yellow, pupils stretching out into their naturally serpentine shape.

Aziraphale didn't so much as blink as he met Crowley's transformed gaze. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm going to bed. We have to teach that transfiguration lesson tomorrow."

"Oh G- Urf. Double transfiguration with a bunch of first years? I'm sitting this one out."

"You can't skip a lesson you're teaching, Crowley."

"Well, they hired both of us, didn't they?"

"That's not the point, we have to set a good example-"

"Are you going to bed or not, angel?"

* * *

Exactly a week later, at fifty four minutes past eleven, Minerva almost fell out of bed from where she'd been reading her potions text book under the covers when her broom stick materialised from nowhere, tied up neatly in silvery paper, at the end of her bed. Stunned, she reached out to pick it up and pull of the wrapping; the broom was seamlessly repaired and in fact looking better than ever she'd seen it. There was a piece of paper tied to the handle.

"Goodnight," it warned in curling blue writing. Minerva stared at it, then in a flurry of movement shoved her wand and textbook beneath her pillow, and leaned down to put the broom underneath her bed. She closed her eyes and, unbeknownst to her, the piece of note paper under her bed quietly folded itself back up again and disappeared.

* * *

*These were, in fact, the same blue eyes that would teach Albus Dumbledore's how to twinkle.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sir," Aberforth whispered through the wooden door, knocking on it rapidly but gently; the sort of knock that's trying to be apologetic for the fact it's three fifteen in the morning, but also desperate for acknowledgement.

"Come in," the room's occupant called in a low whisper, only audible because of the relative silence of the rest of the castle.

The door opened quietly without Aberforth touching it. As this was one of the less strange things that Hogwarts doors did, Aberforth went into the room without hesitation, and didn't bother closing the door behind him as it was already swinging shut. The teenager's status of unsurprised was abruptly reversed as he took in the room.

Aberforth's first impression was that the room was huge; it had a ceiling stretching up to the heavens with the same seamlessness that the great hall boasted, but with didn't show the cloudy sky that was truly outside, instead detailed constellations glittered above him with brilliant clarity. His second was that it was also extremely cramped. It reminded him, vaguely, of the vanishing room he'd first found in his third year, and had rediscovered at odd intervals; it was filled with all manner of strange and out of place things. A huge oil painting tucked into a corner, leaning against the wall rather than actually hung upon it; blue prints for what Aberforth instinctively called an ark unfurled themselves erratically on the wall next to it; a glass bottle the size of a grandfather clock was filled with a sort of golden air that coiled at its base. There was a sofa that managed to look both battered and sleek*, covered in blankets and pillows, and next to that an bird perch, complete with a golden eyed, pure white owl, whose head turned ninety degrees to inspect him.

But what was most overwhelming were the two items of the room that were in considerable excess. There were books, which he had expected of his clearly academic supply potions teacher, but there was also an absolute green house's worth of plants. About a third of the books were neatly arranged in the floor to ceiling bookshelves that spread across one wall, but the other two thirds scattered about the room, most of them precariously balancing two or three plant pots, all boasting fabulously blooming plants. Aberforth looked wonderingly at the mass of foliage that wasn't contained at all, and was in fact growing out of a pile of soil that took up one section of the room. Aberforth's bright blue eyes followed the path of a vine creeping up one of the shelves behind their smudged glass lenses, watched them stretch up, seemingly endlessly, to the star-filled ceiling.

"Mister Dumbledore," Professor Aziraphale said, sounding slightly amused. "And what can I do for you?"

Aberforth looked down, flinching slightly at the use of his last name, and closed his mouth. "Um," he said, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of the robes he'd thrown on over his pyjamas. "I've finished the project you assigned, professor."

Aziraphale beamed. Unlike Aberforth, who to his embarrassment realised that his white-and-red pyjama bottoms were peaking out around his ankles from beneath the black robes, the teacher showed absolutely no sign of the late hour. The robes he'd been wearing while he was teaching earlier that day were folded up on a chair, but he had changed in Muggle clothing, a pair of white pressed trousers, a shirt, and green pullover that didn't really suit him. He was even still wearing shoes, as if at any moment he might be required for an important three-in-the-morning staff meeting.

"The project I gave you last week that's supposed to take you till next term?" Aziraphale enquired cheerfully, taking off his glasses.

"Yes," Aberforth admitted, wondering if he should be apologetic or not. The professor pushed his chair back, away from the desk he'd been working at. Seemingly absentmindedly, Aziraphale waved his hand at the thick books that lay open, and then at the scrolls of parchment and discarded quill. The items tidied themselves up as he smiled again.

"Well, I suppose a congratulation's in order then." Aberforth waited for him to ask why he'd felt the need to share this so early in the morning, and when the teacher did not, he took it as an invitation to start talking.

"I've found a twelfth use of dragon's blood," he said without preamble, unable to contain the pride in his voice.

Aziraphale blinked at him. "A twelfth?"

"Yes- It's a detoxification substance- Doesn't matter how much you've been drinking, it'll wipe out whatever you've got in your system in about ten minutes."

"And how did you discover this, may I ask?"

Aberforth didn't even think twice about telling him about the embarrassing mishap with the brandy and the blood an hour ago. "I studied the other known uses, and the thought occurred they all have similar, well, cleansing properties. It sort of leapt out at me."

The professor smiled like he didn't believe a word, but was happy to pretend he did. "That's very impressive," he said warmly, and the few words of praise that would have sounded tried and insincere from any other teacher made Aberforth's satisfaction swell.

"I've written it up," he said, rummaging in his pockets and pulling out a dark blue notebook splattered with blood stains, his name written in green ink across the top. He moved forward to pass it to the teacher, skirting round the stacks of books and automatically putting out a hand to catch himself on the arm rest of the increasingly enticing looking sofa as he tripped over a pile he'd missed.

"Wait," the teacher hissed with panic as he did so, and Aberforth found himself frozen in mid air for a moment as he was carefully pushed back upright by an unseen force. Aziraphale hadn't even used the wand tucked behind his ear; Aberforth had guessed the professor was powerful, but not to the extent that he could do a silent freezing charm without directing the magic through his wand.

"Sorry?" he whispered, automatically dropping his tone to the same volume. The pile of blankets he'd been about to put his hand on made a snuffling noise.

The teacher put a finger to his lips and pulled his wand out from behind his ear, pointing it at the blankets. They shifted, gently, to reveal a sleeping second professor, one that Aberforth knew had arrived at the same time as Aziraphale, but that he hadn't been taught by.

"He's exhausted, poor thing," Aziraphale said, moving the blankets back over the dark haired teacher. "A day of first and second years, no wonder. Gryffindor too."

"Um," Aberforth said blankly, unsure of how to politely ask why the other man was sleeping in the Potion teacher's rooms.

"They're his as well," offered Aziraphale helpfully. "We're always lodged in the same place when we visit."

"Right," Aberforth said, as though that made everything make sense, passing over the battered notebook and carefully sitting down in an empty chair. As he sunk back into it about two inches, a greyish cat with almost-black tiger stripes jumped nimbly onto the armrest next to him, and nudged against his hand, looking for attention.

"That's Cain," Aziraphale informed him distractedly as he leafed through the book. "He's Crowley's. Professor Crowley's," he corrected himself absently as he made humming noises at the diagrams of Dragon veins.

"Cain?" Aberforth replied, scratching the cat's ears. The creature purred, twisting around Aberforth's hand affectionately.

"Mm. Crowley's got that sort of humour, you know," Aziraphale said, sounding only faintly disapproving. "He's trained my owl to answer to Abel."

Aberforth made a surprised snorting noise, glancing at the haughty looking owl. "Cain and Abel?"

"Indeed. This is excellent, young man," Aziraphale said, pulling his nose out of the book to reward Aberforth with another pleased smile. "Your potions marks will be outstanding."

"Thank you, sir," Aberforth said. At least he was guaranteed a NEWT in something. He'd given up on Transfiguration in particular after his professor's thousandth remark that he wasn't nearly as good as his older brother.

"Did you draw inspiration from your brother's work? I'm sure he'd be delighted to know you've added to his-"

"No," Aberforth interrupted brusquely. "I didn't."

He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of Aziraphale's look taking on an intensely more penetrating nature. Pinned to his seat, Aberforth dropped his gaze under the pretence of glaring at the cat as it scarpered. _Coward._

"I see. You're not going to tell him, then." It was most definitely not a question.

"He'd only act interested. Then he'd probably tell you I copied it off him, or tell everyone it was him, and even if he didn't the bastard would probably still get all the credit for it anyway. Sorry," he added without pausing for breath, because using the word 'bastard' in front of Aziraphale suddenly prompted the same feeling as blaspheming in church. In front of the choir master, or one of the sweet ladies that did the flower arrangements on a Sunday.

"Mm," Aziraphale said, and Aberforth could feel him watching him even as he kept his gaze on the cat that had jumped up onto its master. The feline kneaded its paws into the sleeping man, who rolled over without waking up, then curled up into a tight little ball.

"Perhaps your right. But I was rather under the impression that your brother's competitive nature had been altered after the death of your sister," the professor said gently. It was a more direct approach than Aberforth was used too, but he preferred it to the minced words he usually got. "It could be worth mentioning to him, you know. A common interest, sufficiently impersonal while being a subject of mutual accomplishments."

"Maybe," he said shortly, then remembered who he was talking too and tried to back track on his response instinctively. "Um, could I please have the book back?"

Aziraphale's eyes were calmly reassuring, and devoid of any judgement as he passed back the notebook. Tracing his finger over one of the dark red splatters, Aberforth awkwardly made an attempt to move the topic back to safer grounds, even as he found the suggestion more appealing.

"So I'll get a good grade for it?"

"Certainly," Aziraphale said, picking up his wand from the desk and putting it back behind his ear as he pulled one of the books he'd been looking at open again. "It's the finest piece of work I've ever seen from a sixth year."

"Including my brother?"

There was a considering silence. The owl, Abel, hooted softly.

"Yes," Aziraphale said finally, and with conviction. "Albus was an excellent student, but his strengths were never in Potions. Transfiguration and Charms he was a natural at, but he worked very hard for his grades in Potions and Herbology, I recall."

Aberforth snorted, shaking his head. "I don't believe that. He's never had to work for anything, has my brother."

There was a sigh, and Aberforth looked up to see the Professor tilt his head up to inspect that starry ceiling. "I can't help you there."

The room felt suddenly so sad that Aberforth felt inexplicitly guilty. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, which they had to be, the plants around them drooped noticeably. There was a sudden flurry of movement as the man on the sofa sat bolt upright, hair sticking up in every direction, and all the plants immediately stood to attention again.

"Angel, what are you doing to my plants?" the man demanded, eyes not betraying a hint of sleep as they sought out the sheepish looking Aziraphale.

"Angel?" Aberforth blurted, without thinking, and Crowley froze. His hair, bizarrely, smoothed itself out as he turned his snake-like yellow eyes to Aberforth, who felt himself pinned to the chair in a far more unnerving way than Aziraphale's own look had been.

"Aziraphale, it's cheating if you talk to them while I'm asleep!"

"Virtue is ever vigilant," Aziraphale said, apparently without thinking, a faint blush creeping up his throat as he pulled Crowley's attention back to him. Aberforth relaxed, but was more than slightly confused.

"And I was doing no such thing; he invited himself," the professor added, an afterthought.

"Sorry," Aberforth apologised automatically, getting to his feet quickly. "It's late, sorry, I should go back to my dorm. Should I give this to you tomorrow or leave it here?" he asked, waving the book.

"I'll hold onto it, if that's alright," Aziraphale said, getting to his feet and placing a hand on Crowley's shoulder to stop him standing up. The man obediently relaxed back into the sofa.

"Thank you for dropping it by, I hope you catch up on your sleep tomorrow." †

"Thank you, sir," Aberforth said, handing the note book over and backing up in the direction of the doorway. "Er, good night."

"Good morning, I'd say," Crowley muttered, obscured by the back of the sofa. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Aberforth, who waved his hand about in mute farewell as the door opened for him and disappeared out into the corridor. It is worth note, perhaps, that by the time he had reached his common room, Aberforth had made the decision to send an owl to his brother about the dragon's blood.

In the two professor's rooms, Crowley sniggered.

"Did you do that for the sole purpose of making him uncomfortable?" Aziraphale sighed.

"He upset you. And that made you wilt my plants," Crowley replied unrepentantly, glaring at the greenery around them for added effect. There was the distinct sound of fibres stretching in an effort to make up for their earlier sign of weakness. "And that woke me up," he added

"Sorry," Aziraphale said, looking at the now closed door worriedly. "He is very bitter about his brother, poor boy."

"Stop it, angel," Crowley said, looking a combination of annoyed and reluctantly concerned. "They'll be fine, you've interfered with them too much for either of them to turn out truly awful."

"You think so?"

"I know so, you sneaky bastard."

Ignoring the insult and looking reassured, Aziraphale sat down in the chair Aberforth had vacated.

"I didn't mean too, not tonight anyway. He just turned up."

"I know, angel. You think I don't know when you break the Arrangement?"

"I don't!"

"I know," Crowley repeated, burying himself back down beneath the blankets, looking pleased with Aziraphale's indignation.

"He's found another use for dragon's blood," Aziraphale said after a moment's pause.

"Yeah?"

"Sobers you up like nothing else, apparently. I've yet to see it in action."

Crowley grinned, looking amused at a private joke for a second before an expression of horror crossed his face. "Wait, wait, if he starts selling that stuff it's going to make my job even more hellish than it is by default-"

"I'm not sure he'll tell anyone, to tell the truth. He thinks his brother will get the credit for it," Aziraphale said, sounding immensely disappointed. "And in any case, my dear, he'd never find enough dragon's blood for it to be a problem for you. And can you imagine the hassle of convincing people to drink it in any case? It's unpleasant stuff."

"He's probably right though. About his brother." Relaxed again, Crowley shifted his feet to make space for Aziraphale to sit down on the end of the sofa.

The golden haired teacher didn't contradict him as he sat down, letting out a tired and worried sigh.

"Sleepy, angel?" Crowley asked, closing his eyes, knocking his foot against the angel's elbow gently.

"Not at all," Aziraphale said with a yawn.

"Liar."

The accusation went uncontested and after a few minutes Crowley drifted back to sleep. Carefully selecting a book from beneath a fern, Aziraphale gave the plant's leaves an affectionate stroke as he settled into the sofa and began to read.

* * *

*Had he a more practised pair of eyes, he would have realised that was because it was physically changing in appearance every millisecond, between a luxurious black leather sofa and an immensely comfortable looking fabric one. It was actually quite fortunate he couldn't see it, as it quite possibly would have made his uncomprehending eyes fall out of his very mortal head.

†The fact that Aberforth would wake up a few hours later as well rested as if he'd been sleeping for the past forty days was irrelevant.


	3. Chapter 3

It was raining on the first of September the year Albus started Hogwarts. It was one of those wet autumn's that had seen a steady drizzle for weeks. Albus stood in the doorway of his home in Godric's Hollow and looked out at the wet street, holding onto the leather trunk beside him tightly even though he hadn't lifted it from the floor. Soft, timid hands touched his briefly; his seven year old sister was tracing out the letters emblazoned onto the brown material.

"A. D," she announced after a few seconds of consideration, looking to him for approval.

He nodded, looking away from the dismal autumn sky and smiling encouragingly. "That's right; what does it stand for?"

The girl made a soft noise of discontent as she thought about it. "Dumbledore?" she tried after a few seconds.

"Albus or Ariana though?" he prompted. "What do you think?"

"Or Aberforth," his brother interjected, stomping down the stairs and jumping the last three. He landed awkwardly and one of his legs gave out. He stumbled upright, red-faced and tried to act like he meant to do it.

"Abe," Ariana said decisively. Aberforth grinned at Albus smugly.

"Maybe when he starts school. If he gets his letter," Albus said, annoyed, letting go of his bag to cross his arms. "If he's not a squib, I might let him have it."

"Albus," his mother interrupted, her auburn eyes tired but firm as she came out of the kitchen.

Ariana let out a soft, choked noise, and her family froze. Anger dissipating as he walked over to her, Aberforth picked up his sister even as Albus automatically put some distance between them.

"We can all share, can't we?" the eight-year old boy grunted as he pulled Ariana onto his back. "That's why we've all got 'A' names, so we can share."

"Yes, love," their mother said, smiling. "Are you ready, Albus? Do you have all your things?"

Touching the strap on his shoulder that held his travel bag, Albus nodded. "I've checked I have everything; my ticket's in my pocket." As far as he was concerned, if he managed to get to on the train and to Hogwarts, everything else would fall into place.

"Stay here sweethearts," Kendra said to her two youngest, picking up the trunk with more effort than it had taken for Aberforth to pick up his sister. She pulled it up onto her foot and awkwardly navigated it out into the rain, trying to keep it from getting wet.

"Bye," Albus said to his sister, hugging her from where she was still clinging one armed to Aberforth. "I'll write to you all the time, okay?"

"How you going to do that? We've not got an owl," Aberforth accused.

"There are owls at school, idiot," retorted Albus, stomping out into the rain. "But see if I write to you!"

The same little soft choking noise made him top and turn at the gate, water sticking his hair to his face as looked back at his siblings.

"Love you," he called, waving. Ariana's expression relaxed as she giggled and waved back.

"Love you!"

His mother was fretting, still trying to keep the trunk out of the puddles as she waited for him.

"Quickly, love, we don't want to get too wet or we'll bring all the weather into Bathilda's house."

"Okay, mother, I'm coming."

Kendra let out a sigh, looking worn and apologetic. "Thank you, Albus. I'm sorry for hurrying you, but I don't like leaving Ariana alone, and I'm sorry I can't come to the station, you know that I would if there was any way-"

"It's fine, mother, I promise, I understand."

The two Dumbledore's walked out onto the street and then up their next door neighbours path to the front. Kendra knocked, shuffling the weight of Albus' school case onto her other foot.

"Morning, Bathilda," she said with a smile when the door opened to reveal a plump witch in a dark purple cardigan, who's dark, clever eyes flicked first to Kendra and then to her son where they settled.

"Morning," replied Bathilda, stepping back to allow them both in. "Try not to tread to much water into the carpet."

"I'll be sure to dry it before I leave, Bathilda. Thank you again for letting Albus use your fireplace, we've not got round to paying for ours yet this year, we don't have much cause to use it."

"I'm sure," Bathilda replied, leading the pair through her hallway and to the living room, where a fire was burning in a large grate.

Albus looked around the room interestedly. There were a number of photographs sitting in frames on the wall- most were of Bathilda herself, but some also contained other witches and wizards, all of which he could name as the authors of one or more of the books that were crammed into his father's old bookcase.

"It's not polite to nosey, boy," Bathilda observed, though she didn't sound angry.

"I'm sorry," Albus replied quickly. "You know a great deal of historians; they must ask you lots of questions," he added carefully.

Softening perceptibly, Bathilda nodded. "Now, have you used Floo powder before? You don't want to end up in the wrong fireplace."

"Yes, I know how to do it," Albus said importantly, trying to make himself taller. "You take a handful, and throw it in the fire and when it goes green you step into it. Then you say where you want to go, and it takes you there. Ignatia Wildsmith invented it in the thirteenth century, by-"

"Yes, I know how Wildsmith invented it," Bathilda interrupted, looking at Albus. "Though I'm surprised you even know her name."

"I read a lot."

"Come now dear," Kendra interjected, casting a quick look at the door. "We can't keep Bathilda all day, I'm sure she's things to get on with. And you don't want to be late, it's quarter past already."

Bathilda gave her a sharp, searching look. "Your mother's right, best be off."

She crossed over to the fireplace and took a small pot from above it. Albus watched as she took a large pinch of the silvery sand-like powder and put the pot back down. Beckoned forward, he tensed as she prepared to throw the Floo Powder into the burning flames. He did know the principle of the Floo Network, but he had never actually used it. Though there was talk of lifting the need for a license to have the grate of Wizarding household integrated into the network, it hadn't happened yet, and the powder itself wasn't cheap. They hadn't the money for it since his father had left.

One sharp motion sent the powder into the flames, and Albus made himself wait for it to flash bright green before he scrambled into the fire.

"We'll send your trunk along in a moment, darling," his mother said anxiously. "I love you, and I'll write every day."

Albus nodded quickly- "I love you too"- and then said clearly, "Hogwarts grate, Hogsmeade."

He had time to hear, as he tucked elbows tightly against his body and the world started to spin, his mother speak again in Bathilda's living room.

"I really can't thank you enough, Bathilda, I'll be sure to bring some Cauldron Cakes round for you, if you like them, I was going to make some today."

And then, as he was pulled up and into a shapeless mix of hard brick and the swirling vapour of magic and flames, Bathilda's snappish reply-

"That's funny, I was sure that you found Cauldron Cakes particularly offending."

And then he was stumbling out of the fireplace into a room hundreds of miles away. The room was small, filled with chairs of varying sizes and shapes, and not much else. It had the air of a waiting room, a brief pause on a longer journey. A man dressed something like a Muggle train porter was reading a paper with a witch dancing on its front page, and glanced up at him when Albus murmured and embarrassed 'Excuse me…'

"You'll be for Hogwarts then, son?"

"Yes," Albus replied.

"Where's your case?"

"My mother's sending it after me."

As he spoke, the suitcase came tumbling out of the fire after him. The porter heaved himself up, put his paper carefully to one side, and picked up Albus' case, looking very much as if he had already done this a thousand times that day.

"Come on then, this way, this way," he said, moving towards the door. As he spoke, there was the rush of noise from behind Albus that indicated someone else was coming through the fireplace. Hurriedly stepping out of the way, Albus turned to see a blonde wizard dressed in blue unfold himself gracefully from the grate, and look around.

"Hello," he said, with a smile as he moved into the room, making space for a second wizard to arrive a few seconds later. The latter was taller with dark hair and was dressed all in black.

"You must be one of the Hogwarts students," the first said, smile growing as he offered his hand to Albus. "My name is Professor Aziraphale, I'll be teaching you Potions for a term while your new Professor finishes her affairs in Germany, with Professor Crowley." He gestured to his companion, who was smirking.

"'Affairs' is an astonishingly appropriate term," he grinned. Aziraphale discreetly elbowed him in the side.

"My name is Albus, sir," Albus replied, the exchange going over his head. Both teachers stilled, gazes sharpening*. Then they each appeared to note the change in the other, and notably made themselves relax.

"Percival Dumbledore's boy?" asked Crowley, tone uninflected.

There was the sound of the porter fumbling the case as he gave Albus a shocked look.

Albus winced. He'd been careful, whenever he went out, which was rare, not to tell people his name. It wasn't an uncommon name, but looking so much like his father, and in a community as select as the Wizarding world, it usually took only that to connect his face with the face in the Daily Prophet. The paper was new, only a few years old, and they used what had- what had happened to his sister to raise their profile, and it had worked. They'd exaggerated the story, Albus knew they had, and it had had sold- the great Percival Dumbledore sent to Azkaban, though nobody would talk about the amazing things he' done now.

Albus forced himself to keep the yellow-eyed wizards gaze, his own blue eyes burning with the effort. "Yes."

Crowley looked impressed. "The one who killed the Muggle boys?"

"Would you like me to take that?" Aziraphale interrupted, addressing the porter, who was looking at Albus with new eyes. "As we're the same way, I'd be happy to save you the journey. I'm sure you have no wish to abandon your post of welcoming youngsters back to school."

The porter frowned, but the case changed hands. In fact, Albus wasn't entirely sure when it had- one moment the suitcase was in the man's grip and the next it was in the Professor's, without either seeming to move. He blinked.

"Come along," Aziraphale said cheerfully, taking his companion by the arm and propelling Albus along without actually touching him by the sheer force of his determination. In a moment all three, and the case, were out of the door and on a street on the outskirts of a small village. Albus looked behind him- the door, and indeed the wall it was attached too, had disappeared. Where it had been, there was a view of a grey landscape, all rolling hills and ancient trees.

The street was busy, filled with students, the youngest turning their heads turning rapidly from side to side as they looked for some direction as to what to do next. The older students were largely oblivious to them, flowing down a path through the trees without prompting, all following the general mass movement. Crowley followed Albus' gaze to the panicked looking first years, expression becoming one of vague distaste.

"We're supposed to be herding them," he observed to Aziraphale, jerking his head.

"We'd better get started then, hadn't we?" Aziraphale replied. "Over here, first years!"

He went entirely ignored.

"Oi!" Crowley snapped, voice easily audible above the general din. "Brats!" The entire student body paused, and turned to look at him. Albus felt his face turn red as a few curious looks landed on him, but he didn't move.

"First years," Aziraphale repeated, far less obnoxiously. "Over here, please."

"If you want to get to the castle any time this year, then do it sharpish," Crowley added, turning around without waiting to see if the instruction was going to be obeyed and walking off down the street.

Albus found himself running to catch up with the dark haired wizard. "My father didn't kill anyone," he said, his voice hushed and strained as he tried to keep from shouting.

"Okay."

"I know my father! He didn't kill them! And even if he did, they would have deserved it."

Making a faint sound of interest, Crowley raised one eyebrow. "I agree."

"You don't know what they did."

The professor's eyes gleamed. "Does that matter?"

Albus looked at him, slightly open mouthed. "What?"

"You shouldn't listen to everything your mother tells you. Or rather, listen and then judge. Try making your own calls."

"My mother says not to judge."

Rolling his eyes, Crowley shrugged. "Your choice," he said calmly. "You humans are good at that."

"You're cheating already. It's not officially the school term yet, you know," Aziraphale said sternly, walking up behind them, four dozen or so children wandering after him like sheep.

The professor stuck out his tongue, Albus thought, but retracted it again so quickly it was hard to tell. Frowning and unable to decide what to make of the other wizards words, Albus fell back to walk with the other students.

After a few minutes, he realised that he was slowly, inexorably moving outwards from the centre of the group. Either he was being imperceptibly nudged towards the outskirts of the group of first-years, or the rest of them were subtly moving away from him.

"He looks like that man in the paper."

"My mother said that he was starting this year."

Albus looked at the boy on his left, the last person between him and the Scottish wilderness.

"Hello," he offered, trying to sound at ease with himself, and the whispers around him. "I'm Albus. Albus Dumbledore," he repeated, a little louder than necessary.

The other boy turned his head, and Albus was momentarily startled by the green tinge to his skin, and a number of odd pimples scattered across his face. When Albus didn't comment, the other boy looked more shocked than he felt.

"Elphias Doge," Elphias replied, giving Albus a wary smile.

"Do you know where we're going?" Albus asked, taking the first topic that sprung to mind.

"The boats, aren't we? My brother told me the first years take the boats, and the years above use the carriages."

"Yes, we sail across the Black Lake," said Albus knowingly. "It's Hogwarts tradition; it started when the founders took on their first pupils."

"Really? How do you know?"

"I've spoken with Bathilda Bagshot, the historian." He wasn't sure if Bathilda was famous yet, though she'd told him that she was. Either way, he didn't think Elphias Doge was the type to have heard of her, but that didn't matter.

"The founders had to clear a lot of the forest that borders the school grounds. But the wood is infused with very ancient magic, even a thousand years ago, so they couldn't just burn it. A lot was used in building the castle, but Rowena Ravenclaw had them turned into the boats, and used to bring new students across."

"Wow," Elphias looked impressed, and Albus smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a few of the other students listening.

"Yes, and Helga Hufflepuff charmed them so that they're powered by desire; the more you want to reach Hogwarts, the faster they go. She said it was to make sure that only students who really wanted to attend did; she had lots of ideas like that. The others were more concerned about who they wanted to allow in, like Slytherin with his pure-bloods."

By this point, most of the students in ear shot where listening; the attention Albus was aware of and rather relishing in. Unbeknownst to him, however, so were the two professors leading the way down the damp track to the lake.

"He's going to be one to watch, isn't he?" Aziraphale murmured, tilting his head back a little.

"Mm. I was told to specifically, actually."

"Really? That's odd."

"Why?"

"So was I."

"It's not that odd," Crowley pointed out, looking resigned. "Actually it happens a blessed lot more than is strictly speaking comfortable."

"I know what you mean." Rolling his shoulders agitatedly, Aziraphale shot Crowley a quick look. "What did your people say?"

"Potential to engineer great unrest, something about the greater good, leading an army, death and destruction, manipulation and deceit, same old. Yours?"

"That he could bring about a revolution in how wizards saw Muggles and Muggle-borns, that he would have to be prepared to make sacrifices, he had the potential to be a great leader for our side-"

"So much the same, then?"

"Not exactly the same, my dear."

"Oh come on, it's two ways of saying the same thing."

There was a pause as they walked on, Albus audible behind them and explaining how the food was brought up to the Great Hall from the kitchens.

"I would suggest that, for at least his first year, a, how would you put it, a 'hands off approach' would be most prudent?" Aziraphale said cautiously.

"Probably for the best. See how things work out. Though we'd better keep him away from Jeremy Bentham."

"Don't want him influenced by one of ours?"

"One of yours? You mean your lot has picked a side to come down on about _Offences Against-_"

"Returning to the topic at hand, my dear- a hands off approach?"

"Sure, angel, sure, but I'll have you answer that question before this century's out."

"I do so admire optimism, Crowley."

"Aziraphale, that was very nearly a witty response."

"Do shut up, dear."


	4. Chapter 4

At fifteen years old, Severus Snape knew rather more about most things than he should. He knew about the hidden rooms of Hogwarts that held centuries of unguarded secrets, and the dark places below the Slytherin common room. He knew about places otherwise lost behind passwords and passageways, and how to bribe and trick his way through both. He knew what it was like to be hated because of the green badge on his cloak, and knew how to hate the splash of red that marked the likes of James Potter. He knew what it was like to love your best friend before he knew what love was. He knew, above all, what it was like to be lonely.

Rather more pragmatically, what he knew at this precise moment was that he was all of a second away from being either thrown bodily out of the nearest window or cursed into a smoking black smudge on the castle floor.

And rather more crucially than that, he knew it was James Potter's fault. If he survived this, Potter wasn't going to.

The classroom was dead silent. Severus didn't move, wand stretched out in front of him and arm locked in place by sheer horror and no small amount of self-preservation. It was still pointed incriminatingly at the dark haired substitute professor; the one currently suspended upside down by his ankle and regarding him with icy calm. Severus had the sudden urge to drop his wand and run, an urge quickly quelled by an animalistic knowledge that he should under no circumstances turn his back on this man, or go into the rest of this confrontation unarmed.

His classmates, Syltherins and Gryffindors both, edged away from his, stools scraping quietly on the stone floor. All, Severus noted with disgust, but the ones containing Potter and Black, who didn't even have that much sense, and were simply looking, open mouthed, between him and the teacher.

Professor Crowley looked at him for a moment, face impassive.

"I would advise you at this point to close your mouth and lower your wand."

Severus closed his mouth with an audible snap. Blushing as he took several steps backward, he only barely twitched his wand downwards.

He must have blinked because suddenly Crowley was standing, the right way up, on the stone floor, snakeskin shoes making a smart_ click_ that echoed quietly in the otherwise silent corridor.

Teacher and class eyed each other. If a casual passerby had felt the need to look directly into the eyes of and of the assembled fifteen year olds, the echo of the last student to upset Crowley could be seen flashing across them- with the soundtrack of terrified screams and exploding cars, helpfully supplied as they were by the juvenile subconscious. Alison Watchwater had had to be taken to the Hospital Wing to calm down, and later moved to St Mungo's for therapy.

"I'm so sorry," Severus blurted out. "I'm so sorry, Professor, I thought that—"

He broke off, for two reasons. The reason he'd hexed Crowley was that he'd thought that the teacher had been Potter. Given that the latter had spent the last three-quarters of an hour enchanting parchment to skid away from him a second after he'd started writing on it, leaving him with two feet of black ink scratching over his Defence notes, Severus felt he was justified in wanting to see the boy strung up by his ankles. Preferably with Black sharing the ceiling too if he could get the second hex in fast enough, and he was capable of dealing with the resulting fall out.

But it wasn't in Severus to snitch, for whatever reason; he preferred sneaking vengeance to a teacher's short-lived interference. Nor was it, for that matter, in him to whine to a teacher, and expect them to do something about it. He believed in fighting his own battles. Secondly, Severus didn't think that this justification was going to help him. Crowley didn't seem like the sort of teacher who would bother attempting to exert influence on classroom warfare, and, more importantly, didn't seem like the kind of person who would let direct assault slide for any reason. The best he could do, Severus thought with resignation, was try not to cry like Michael Cottrell had done last lesson.

When he didn't continue, Crowley let out a threatening hiss of air in a sinister sigh. "I see."

Severus said nothing, eyes flicking about the room as he struggled to find something to look at. He wasn't going to look at Crowley—there was something about the teacher's eyes that touched a primate part of him and made him want to curl up into a tiny ball and die—and he wasn't going to look at any of the other students, because they would think he was scared. He settled on Crowley's mouth, set as it was in a tight line, and tried to remember to breathe.

"I think," Crowley said at length, "That here our lesson concludes. If you'll all pack up your things, except for you," he didn't need to clarify any further than that, not even bothering to look at Severus as he glared around the rest of the class, "And you, Potter."

"Me, sir?" Potter yelped, managing to sound as if he genuinely believed he was being unfairly accused of something.

Crowley gave him a pointed look, and Potter went uncharacteristically silent, innocent expression crumpling up in resignation. There was a sudden scramble of movement as the class rushed to pack their bags and scurry out of the room. Sirius grinned at James as he passed and slapped his shoulder, barely faltering when he caught Crowley's gaze, but hurrying out the room. Severus tried to catch the eyes of Avery and Mulciber, but the two boys determinedly avoided his look and left the classroom.

"Potter, you will wait outside," Crowley said calmly, waving his wand at the books and papers on his desk as the student complied. The items picked themselves up and stowed themselves into the dark green snakeskin bag on the floor.

"What spell was it?" he asked without preamble as the door to the classroom swung shut.

"What? The spell?"

"Yes, you didn't say it aloud, did you?"

"Um, no, sir. It's called Levicorpus," Severus said uncertainly when the teacher's eyes continued to stare unbendingly into his.

"That's a new one." It was a statement, not a question. "Where did you learn that?"

"I… A book, sir," Severus replied.

"If you're going to try to lie to me, you will need to get a lot better very quickly," Crowley said sharply. There was a brief moment in which the professor's lips pulled back to reveal impossibly white, sharp teeth, before the appearance dropped and Crowley's composed expression was back in place.

Severus flinched. "I didn't learn it anywhere, sir."

"Right. So, you created it?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's impressive, you know," the professor said, though it didn't sound quite like a compliment. Crowley's eyes bored into his, and Snape shifted uncomfortably as he fought to look anywhere else.

"Thank you," offered Severus cautiously.

"Mm. And who did you think you were firing this spell at?"

Severus said nothing for a moment. "It was more a reflex. Sir."

"You can drop the 'sir'," Crowley said, eyebrows lifting. "That was a slightly better lie. But you do know that your ongoing war with James Potter and his entourage isn't a secret?"

Gaze shifting abruptly, Severus looked at him straight on and ignored the agitated curl in his stomach as he met Crowley's eyes.

"I see." Crowley looked satisfied the provoked response. "There's a betting pool with the teachers concerning yourself and Lily Evans as well, if that's any interest to you."

Severus blinked and looked away, back to his shoes, completely off-balance. Hidden by his sleeves, he unclenched his hands carefully. He'd fallen out with Lily three days ago, and she hadn't spoken to him since. They'd not argued before, so he didn't have anything to compare it to, and he'd never had any other friends to fight with. With no precedent, and no idea how to make the situation better, Severus had been reduced to simply hoping that she'd forgive him, and start talking to him again.

Trying quickly to think of something else just in case the professor could read his mind, which didn't seem unlikely, Severus blurted out,

"You teach Herbology, don't you?"

"Currently," Crowley allowed, "Professor Beery left to follow his dramatic calling*, and his replacement will not be here for another month."

"I remember in my first year," said Severus after a moment's hesitation. "You covered Transfiguration."

"My skills extend over many fields," replied Crowley smugly. He leant back against the desk, stance relaxing from the commanding pose he had been teaching in.

"But there was another teacher with you?" Severus prompted, keen to distract Crowley from his surely impending punishment. "One of the other students, she said that you always came together?"

The matter of Crowley and Aziraphale was of distinct curiosity among the student population. Students with older siblings and parents who had gone to Hogwarts reported that they had been covering for absent teachers for at least two decades, but in all that time did not appear to have aged. This wasn't, in itself, too unusual; magic did have strange effects on aging in some wizards, inadvertently or otherwise. What was unusual was that the two of them came together when only one professor was needed, and, more pressingly in Severus' opinion, that as soon as they'd gone, nobody seemed to remember that they had ever been until they were back again.

As long as he wasn't getting detention for accidently jinxing the professor with a spell that hadn't been formally tested, Severus thought he could try and get away with a little snooping. The fact that Crowley hadn't regained control of the conversation straight away was in his favour.

Some of Severus' confidence evaporated as something in Crowley's demeanour stiffened. "He's busy," Crowley said, tone perfectly balanced between dismissive and foreboding.

"Okay," Severus very nearly squeaked, except he was fifteen years old and a Slytherin, so that sort of thing was beneath him. In the depths of his robes, Severus clutched his wand.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Then Crowley seemed to reach a decision.

"Do you know why the Headmaster is not at Hogwarts?"

Severus blinked, but nodded cautiously. "He's fighting. In the war, the war between the Ministry and You-Know-Who."

"The Ministry," Crowley repeated with a derisive snort. "It's a war between Voldemort and Dumbledore, and the Order of the Phoenix." He paused, presumably waiting for Severus to say something, which he didn't, despite the fact he had never heard of 'the Order of the Phoenix'. "I'm here as a favour to him.

"He asked Aziraphale here too, but he wouldn't leave London. That's the main battleground, you know, and no wizard with sense is living there anymore, but obviously no-one can move all the Muggles."

Stopping again, Crowley seemed to consider his next few words carefully. "Do you know why I'm telling you this?"

"No," Severus said bluntly.

Crowley smiled. "It's going to be your war one day, kid. Yours more than most. Just so you know." The teacher hesitated, minutely, a flash of internal conflict in his odd honey-coloured eyes.

"There are more than two sides in a war; as many sides as there are combatants, and that includes foot soldiers. When… Just remember that. More than two sides. Just because other people might think you're on one, it doesn't meant you can't have your own agenda. Thinking life is as clear cut as good and evil is a Gryffindor concept."

Halting abruptly, Crowley gave him a scrutinising look. Uncomprehending, Severus met his gaze blankly.

"Alright, sir," Severus ventured after the silence had stretched out.

The professor sighed, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He straightened, almost imperceptibly, and cast his eyes briefly upwards.

"Send Potter in, will you?" he ordered, even if it was phrased like a request, gesturing to the door. Severus tried not to bolt, and didn't mention the lack of punishment.

"I'll expect you in my office at nine o'clock this evening," Crowley said from behind him. His grin was audible, and Severus reconsidered the possibility that the man could read minds.

The snort that may possibly have been an answer to that wayward thought was not encouraging, and Severus beat a hasty retreat. Potter was waiting outside the door, and Severus took great care to hit him with it as he went past.

"Snivellus," Potter muttered, crashing into him as they both tried to walk through the same space at once.

"Potter," Crowley said sharply. "In."

The boy paled slightly and disappeared into the room. Severus was half way down the corridor when a thought occurred, and he stopped, looked around and walked quietly back.

That probably wasn't what Dumbledore had had in mind when he'd asked Crowley to talk to Snape. The old wizard had been watching Severus for a while, the same way he'd been watching James and Lily, and a number of the other children in their year. These were the children, after all, that had parents who were Death Eaters and Order members. They warranted the attention.

Dumbledore thought Severus had the potential for a spy. His guerrilla tactics against the bullying of James Potter during their first two years of school together were noteworthy in their success, and the boy's mother was also cause for interest; a blood purist who converted and married a Muggle without a drop of Wizarding blood in his body. Dumbledore didn't see a swift conclusion to the war, and such measures of observation were prudent, he said.

Crowley, for his two pence, wasn't sure why Dumbledore thought he was more suited to running a school than the Ministry, or at least the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There was quite a bit about Dumbledore Crowley wasn't sure about; but Aziraphale liked him.

Aziraphale was on his mind rather more than Crowley wanted, these days. He wondered what his counterpart would have done, if Dumbledore had given him the same task—probably a better job of it. Then again, it was only Aziraphale's superiors that were keen on the whole 'greater good' thing; it was getting harder to predict the behaviour of the angel himself. Crowley was personally more for self-preservation, but again that was probably more of a snake thing than a true reflection of Hell's values. The principles of a 'greater good' held some attraction to them too.

He dismissed James without much thought, with vague threats of a surprise detention lingering over him to keep the teenager on his toes. The kid had barely gotten out of the door before he let out a high-pitched scream of surprise. Crowley stuck his head out of the door, to see James hanging upside down in mid air, screaming expletives down the seemingly empty corridor. Unseen, Crowley retreated back into the classroom opted to leave Potter to it.

* This was said with a malicious sort of amusement; Snape recalled briefly the fire that had broken out at Beery's final production at the school. The Great Hall had been partially demolished when two conflicting angles of a supposed love triangle had caused when they had started duelling in the second act. Nobody had stopped them for almost a quarter of an hour because they were convinced it was part of the show.


End file.
